


remedy

by tsunderestorm



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emetophilia, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Warping makes Noctis nauseous when he first masters the technique. Luckily he has a very devoted boyfriend to help him with that in the form of familiar fingers down his throat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a very self-indulgent headcanon shared between me and my girlfriend, but I'm putting it here because a.) I'm pretty proud of it and b.) I know there has to be at least one other person out there who wants to read about Ignis lovingly and intimately helping Noctis throw up. lmfao
> 
> (Emetophilia tag as a warning...the point of this fic is not so much the kink centering around throwing up as much as it is the process behind it, but it was really the only way to get the message across. Anyway, don't read this if vomit grosses you out.)

He’s sitting on a couch in his room when Ignis finds him, bucket clutched in his hands. His stomach is a churning, roiling mess, nausea hanging heavy and omnipresent around the room. It feels stale and stuffy, too warm and even raising his head to look at Ignis send it spinning again, makes him swallow back the taste of acid that won’t come all the way up.

Ignis steps out of his shoes and crosses the room, setting the folio of documents down on the table and kneeling down beside him. Softly, like he can read Noctis’s troubled mind, he asks: “I take it practice with Gladiolus didn't go well?”

“Warping. No good,” Noctis croaks, voice raspy as he swallows over and over, reflex biting down the vomit that threatens to surge up. The fight he’s putting up does nothing but make him cough, dry heaving over the bucket with a sad whimper. Nothing but a small drop of spit drips into the bucket and he tosses it away, frustrated, as he uncurls his legs from beneath them and stretches them as he stands. He sways on his feet, steadied only by the touch of Ignis’s hand to his elbow that he shakes off as he brushes past on his way to the bathroom.

“You'll feel better if you get it out,” Ignis reasons as he follows, obediently, standing in the doorway when they reach the bathroom. It’s clear Noctis uses it; there are empty shampoo bottles collected beside the shower, a film of spilled soap on the tile floor. Clothes in the corner, refusing to let the door open all the way and he’s preparing himself for a chastising from Ignis. Surprisingly, it doesn't come. “If your body won’t help you, you’ll have to encourage it.”

Noctis is sure the look he gives him is pure murder. “You think I don’t know that?” Defeated, he flops down in front of the toilet and stares into the standing water. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

Turning back to his boyfriend, he watches Ignis’s brow furrow and feels bad - Ignis is always so patient, much more so than Gladiolus, and it makes him guilty sometimes. He knows he’s being difficult, but Ignis is still there, kneeling down now beside him. He watches, incredulous, as Ignis unbuttons his glove and raises his fingers to his mouth, pinching a leather fingertip between his teeth. After he loosens all the fingers, he pulls it off and sets it aside, stark black against the pale grey tile. His hand is soft and pale, blue veins beneath skin a roadmap that Noctis could follow all the way to his heart. “Please, my prince, allow me to help.”

Noctis doesn't realize what's happening, for a second, not until Ignis’s hand cups his cheek and directs his attention back to the toilet bowl. He rubs his thumb over Noctis’s lips briefly, sweetly, as he leans forward to kiss his temple and then his index, middle, ring fingers are slipping past his chapped lips. Over his tongue, soft and smelling faintly of leather and the lemongrass hand cream he favors, going further back until - _ gods _ , is he really - ?

If he won't throw up on his own, Ignis is going to _make_ him puke. He has his fingers in his mouth and he’s really going to do it and shit, is this what he meant by allowing him to help?

Noctis gags weakly at the first press of Ignis's fingers to the back of his throat, biting down on reflex but Ignis doesn't react. It’s like he doesn’t care about the pain, the shock of teeth sinking into his knuckles. He doesn't even flinch, still an unmoving presence beside him and Noctis isn’t sure how to react. Ignis pulls his fingers back just enough, rests them on the wet muscle of Noctis’s tongue and clucks his tongue quietly. Noctis can feel his eyes on him, burning into the embarrassed flush-red skin of his cheeks, taking in the sight of his sweaty, limp-hanging hair and the pit stains on his t-shirt. It's...sweet, the way the pads of his fingertips stroke the soft insides of his mouth, fingernails cracking against teeth, sweeter still that he knows Ignis doesn’t care if he’s rolled around in mud - he just wants to be  _ with _ him even if it means watching him dry-heave over a toilet after a particularly grueling training session.

“Again?” Ignis asks, quietly, when Noctis relaxes, ready to try again. Noctis nods. There's a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that’s fighting the nausea for attention, aching to be front and center, to be noticed. It’s not quite lust, though it’s easy to lave his tongue over Ignis’s perfect, elegant fingers and imagine it could  _ maybe _ affect him, even in this state. It’s more...intense than that, fierce and strong and he feels  _ grateful _ , so full of love it’s almost nauseating in a different way. Terrifying, all-consuming.

“Shall we, then?” Ignis asks again, gently prodding, thumb rubbing Noctis’s chin, fingers unmoving inside his mouth until he’s ready.

Ignis moves so he's kneeling behind him, chest at his back, knees on either side of Noctis’s hips. Cradling him, holding him - knowing full damn well when this was over he'd flop back onto him but right now what he needs is the solidity of his body, a catalyst to raise him into a better position to vomit. Everything is too bright, too overwhelming: the lights are too bright, the crackle of magic still sharp in his veins, surging, pent up and powerful. He smells everything more acutely - sweat clinging to his skin, Ignis's cologne, the floral smell of the cleaner the maids use on the toilet, the acrid taste of bile hovering in the back of his throat.

Noctis can't talk around the fingers in his mouth, so he settles for planting his hands on Ignis's legs, fingernails scraping along the careful creases on his tailored pants. Ignis’s free hand brushes Noctis’s hair back from his face. He lets his eyes slide closed, focused somewhere between the overwhelming desire to hurl and the delicious feel of Ignis’s smooth, pampered fingers resting on his tongue, the three of them thick enough to  _ maybe _ feel close to his cock if Noctis imagines they’re tangled up in bed together, not spooned against one another on the floor of his bathroom while he pukes up stomach acid.

This is  _ not _ the time for that. He doesn’t have the energy, but - thoughts for later.

“Gently, now,” Ignis coaxes as his fingers delve deeper, bumping the back of his throat again and  _ oh gods,  _ there it is, all coming up at once hot and watery and  _ vile _ and even though Ignis knows just when to pull his fingers back he still ends with acrid spittle stuck to them - Noctis can see it through the tears pricking out of the corners of his eyes, throat raw and jaw aching from the heaving. What little Noctis’s nauseous stomach has left to offer hits the water in the toilet bowl in an awkward splatter and he waits, suspended over it, retching until nothing more comes up.

Ignis catches him when he flops backwards, exhausted and spent, knees spreading wider to accommodate Noctis between them, sitting back on his heels as Noctis curls in towards him, head on his chest.

“ ‘s gross when you do that,” Noctis says, picking at a button on Ignis's shirt. “That's not in your job description or your expectations as a boyfriend, you know.”

Ignis withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket with the hand that isn't rubbing soothing circles on Noctis’s belly, arm hooked below his armpit to anchor him as his fingers skitter lightly across the skin beneath his old t-shirt. Carefully, he wipes first his fingers with a tiny corner of the fabric and then Noctis’s mouth, patting the corners of his lips and blotting a line of drool from his chin.

“Imagine if it were,” he jokes, and Noctis buries his face in his chest. “But helping you is. I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy gagging me? Gross, man."

“Noctis,  _ please.” _


End file.
